Was he watching? Could he read my thoughts before I did? I waited, as if he would jump out from behind the door and catch me. The fire crackled in the soft silence.
I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was not his prisoner.
Tentatively, I reached for the cloak again. It was spun of a deep blue wool and, like his clothes, untrimmed but well-made and warm. I tied the cloak over my shoulders, then lifted my pillow and eyed the ring of keys.
It had only been a nightmare, but the thought of opening my hand and seeing only blood filled me with as much dread as if it had been real. I was being irrational—who would steal them? But as much as things appeared of their own volition in my rooms, I worried thingsmight alsodisappear. On the other hand, if I took them, they might fall out of my pocket in the forest, and that might be even worse. But Lord Death had given them to me with trust I did not have in myself. I was determined to prove him right.
I put them in a table drawer. Then on top of the fireplace mantel. Finally, I moved them under the mattress and left.
If my head hurt any less, I would have marveled again at all the finery of the transformed château. The foyer I’d crossed chasing the hellcat was now restored to its full glory, with no sign of the strange creature. The tiles were smooth and unbroken marble. Orbs of flowing glass sat over the torches, making the light glimmer on the stone like sunlight on water. The doors opened before I touched them, swinging as if they were hung on air. Was this how it felt to live in a world where you were not a cursed creature? Everything beautiful and soft, opening before you? Outside, the winter sun seared itself behind my eyes, but it was the sight of the courtyard that made me abruptly stop. The doors shut behind me with a profound click.
He’d been right.
The madman who’d bit off his own tongue had been here. Where I stood. He’d been right.
Death’s château was soot black, even to the spires on its tower, gables on its roof, and courtyard of thorned trees. The earth looked razed to the edge of the courtyard wall. Beyond, the forest crowded thick and dark, as if eager to reach over the walls but stopped by some unseen hand. One year at the convent, we had a blight, and the nuns had to burn the fields and salt the earth to cure it, leaving it like a barren scar. That is what the courtyard and the trees reminded me of. A scar. Salt. The estate, narrow and tall, sat driven into the mountains along the river as if it were a burnt tree that refused to die. Nausea washed over me and I leaned forward to catch my breath. I couldn’t let myself think about the valley or the man who had lost his mind, couldn’t let myself even try to make sense of it. Instead, I pushed it all aside.
I had to find the herbs I needed and get back before night—beforeDeath returned. Pulling up my hood to block the sun, I forced myself through the blackened skeleton trees of the courtyard and out the arched gate into the forbidding woods.
As soon as I slipped behind the thick wall of spruce, the sun dimmed enough to stop pounding at my skull. But as the forest’s shadow closed behind me, an awareness crept prickling across my skin and scalp. I was being watched. It didn’t feel the same as the house or Lord Death—it felt like the trees were observing me.
I remembered the tricks of the wood, wiping away my path. I did not want to become lost. Pulling off my veil, I tore a strip and tied it around a branch. It fluttered pale blue, then stilled, as if the forest had scented me like an animal. Deep down I knew Death would chide me, but I was not his prisoner. I could come and go as I pleased. Until nightfall.
The forest seemed wary, but willing to let me pass. I marked my path, tearing small pieces off the veil to make it last. It wasn’t far before the river emerged from between the bare trees, flowing fast around the chunks of remaining ice. I placed one more strip of veil under a rock to mark the spot, then turned my steps upriver. It wasn’t long before I spotted a willow, large and sturdy, bare branches draped gracefully over a pool still covered in ice.
Ducking through the branches felt like entering a sanctum, the world beyond reduced to a reverent hush. I did not like it. I’d avoided the forest for more reasons than just its creatures; I tried not to remember, but here, it was impossible. Valerie’s red knuckles. The slender sinew of her worn fingers as she showed me how to peel back the bark. “Only take the new growth,” she’d said, patient and firm. The way she trusted me to go off, working under her careful eye.
Slowly, I reached for the slender shoots, twisting them off, collecting the stalks in one clenched fist because I had no basket.
Back at the château I would need to find a knife and some kind of animal fat to turn the branches into a poultice for my ribs, but for now, I peeled off the outer layer of bark of one of the shoots andstuck the bare branch into my mouth, chewing on the meat as I went back to harvesting. My headache eased, but the more I moved, the worse the pain flared in my ribs. When I had a handful of branches, I tucked them under my cloak and turned for the river.
My memories of Valerie made me feel more sure, less afraid. The forest remained quiet, but now a few squirrels crashed through the brush and occasionally a wintering bird twittered from the canopy. I found my mark and curved away from the river. The shadows stretched long and spindly; my errand had taken longer than I expected, and I quickened my pace, focusing on my tracks to be sure I did not waver from the right path, confident in my stride until suddenly, the snow turned to water.
I yelped and threw myself back.
Somehow, I managed to keep a grip on my precious bundle of sticks, but the wind was knocked out of me, the pain in my ribs screaming, and I lay in the wet snow, gasping and tangled in my skirts and cloak. Above me, thin flits of gray sky shone between the dark spruce understory.
When I finally caught my breath, I slowly pushed myself up.
My tracks—the prints I had followed so carefully—led straight into ahot spring.
Trickery. Even if I had missed this … how would my tracks have comeoutof the water? I narrowed my eyes at the tall trees, innocently still in the long afternoon shadows.
Lord Death had said the house drew from a deep well of magic, and that well was the forest itself. Now, I was at the heart of it, an intruder alone in its depths. But as the moments passed, nothing came to grab me. No faceless creature emerged from behind the tress. It was as if the forest had simply arranged itself around my path.
I lowered my hand into the water. It was hot. Very hot. Steam twisted off the surface into the dark firs and spruce trees, making every breath fragrant and heady. Despite the fading daylight, the pain from my injuries made the water tempting. It would speed along the workof the willow bark. If I was quick. If I was careful and the forest didn’t drown me for the pleasure of it. I bit my lip and looked up at the hovering fir boughs.
“Please, I’m hurt,” I said to the trees, even though I felt like a fool to be talking to nothing.
Nothing stirred. Nothing answered.
Before, I would not have risked it. I feared the forest most. But now … I did not want to disappoint Lord Death. He had given me the keys to his home, these fine, warm clothes, and the belief I was worth the time and effort to train. I thought of his face, his piercing dark gaze that betrayed nothing, and I imagined him disappointed in me. I could not do anything until I bound up this wound. So I’d risk the forest.
Quickly, I undid my cloak, peeled off my clothes, boots, and stockings, and set my willow branches on the little pile, keeping them all within reach of the edge of the spring.
My naked body felt stiff, braced against the chill and the radiating pain as I picked my way through the wet snow and lowered myself over the edge. The blue-green water closed over my ribs and a shudder of relief flooded my body. I sank deeper into the pool and breathed a long sigh. Settling into a shallow bowl of stone, I moved my breast out of the way. The bruise was spreading, now glistening purple-black. I didn’t like the look of it. Was it just a bruise? Could it have been enchanted? All I had to cure it was willow bark and the water. I spread my arms in a wide circle and dipped my shoulders under the surface, luxuriating in the heat of the spring.
I had just started to breathe normally when the wind rose, lifting the voices of the fir trees and rippling across the water.
